On May 25, Basil arrived at a small river marking the boundary between the two armies, accompanied by ten shield-bearing guards and a civil official. He requested a meeting with the Serpent of the North.
Vig first sent men to verify the visitor's identity. After confirming that it truly was Basil himself, he likewise approached the river with ten Imperial Guards carrying shields and a secretary.
Separated by more than twenty meters of flowing water, Vig greeted him in fluent Latin.
"It's been a long time, Your Majesty. Thirty years have passed. It seems we've both found our places in the world."
Back then, Ivar, Vig, Gunnar, and the others had traveled to Constantinople. At the imperial hunting grounds outside the city, Vig and Basil had once crossed swords in an imperial duel.
Now they met again—not as young warriors, but as emperors.
The contrast stirred complicated emotions.
Thinking back, both of them had started life as farmers.
One had relied on military genius, fighting for more than thirty years to build a vast empire from nothing.
The other had climbed through court intrigue with remarkable political talent, maneuvering through conspiracies until he seized the highest throne in the world.
Neither path had been easy.
Vig lowered his gaze to the river's surface.
In the reflection, he thought he could see strands of gray at his temples.
The boy from an obscure Nordic village was no longer young.
After more than ten minutes of conversation, Vig made one additional proposal.
"Since you refuse to hand over the Frankish remnants, at least move them somewhere farther away."
"Don't keep them in Italy or along the Balkan frontier."
"In return, I'll settle my prisoners in Britain so they won't interfere with your rule."
Basil agreed.
His secretary crossed the river by boat several times, drafting two lengthy peace treaties.
After carefully reviewing every clause, both emperors signed and sealed the documents, each retaining one copy.
The war was over.
The Second Prince read through the treaty, written in both Norse and Greek.
"We spent a whole year campaigning and still never got to see Rome."
"What a pity."
Vig shook his head.
"There was no need."
"The Visigoths and Vandals sacked Rome one after another during the fifth century."
"Then came plague and famine."
"The city has long since declined."
"Its population is barely forty thousand."
"It's not even as large as Londinium."
To him, Rome represented the past. Constantinople represented the present. Londinium represented the future.
As Western Europe, Eastern Europe, and Scandinavia continued developing—and as the New World opened further—the Atlantic would one day eclipse the Mediterranean as the center of global trade.
At the beginning of June, Vig began the journey home.
He stopped at Genoa along the way and summoned a group of Italian merchants who had been captured during the war.
Northern Italy lay far from the empire's core territories.
The cost of direct administration was too high, so the region would once again be governed through feudal grants.
Besides creating new counties, Vig also intended to establish two Imperial Free Cities dedicated to commerce.
One would be Ravenna, on Italy's eastern coast, serving trade with the eastern Mediterranean.
The other would be Cannes, near the Franco-Italian frontier, handling commerce throughout the western Mediterranean.
Venice, despite its ideal geography, was never seriously considered.
The reason was simple.
Its loyalty was questionable.
There was no reason to funnel imperial trade through a city that claimed neutrality while consistently favoring the Eastern Romans.
He distributed documents explaining his commercial plans.
Once stability returned, goods from the New World, Scandinavia, and Britain would travel up the Seine River.
After a short overland journey, they would continue along the Saône and Rhône Rivers into the Mediterranean, where most merchandise would be sold through the two Free Cities.
Prior to this, the empire already possessed two such cities.
The first was Visby on Gotland, the commercial center of the Baltic.
The second was Bayonne, on the Atlantic west of the Pyrenees, whose sole purpose was trade with the Visigoths and the Moors.
The idea of the Imperial Free City came from the Free Imperial Cities of the Holy Roman Empire.
Unlike feudal domains, these cities belonged to no noble lord.
They answered directly to the emperor.
Merchant councils governed their internal affairs, enjoyed numerous privileges, and even held seats within the Imperial Council of Sages.
After hearing the emperor's explanation, the merchants remained skeptical.
They bombarded him with questions, especially about the empire's newest technologies.
What interested them most were the new sailing ships.
They carried more cargo, handled rough seas better, and required fewer crewmen than traditional galleys—ideal merchant vessels.
Vig slowly shook his head.
"Gentlemen..."
"Don't push your luck."
"The Mediterranean is calm."
"The current galleys are more than adequate."
"As for Atlantic shipping, that's none of your concern."
"The Empire enforces patent law."
"The patents for two-masted and three-masted sailing ships belong to the Crown."
"No foreign power outside Britain is permitted to build them."
"If anyone does..."
"We'll sink the ships immediately."
"The same applies to the new spinning machines, improved dyeing methods, papermaking, printing, blast furnaces, advanced glassmaking..."
"All of them are protected by patent."
"Perhaps one day I'll license some of these technologies to certain city-states."
"But if anyone deliberately breaks the rules..."
"Don't blame me for showing no mercy."
Vig ruled a vast and diverse empire.
His first priority had to remain the imperial heartland—
Britain's eighteen directly administered counties.
Those lands contained the empire's most profitable and technologically advanced industries, including textiles, iron production, and shipbuilding.
Next came the noble domains of Britain and the twenty directly administered counties south of the Channel.
As long as those core territories remained secure, unrest elsewhere could never threaten the empire's foundations.
Although the expeditionary army gradually withdrew from northern Italy after the war, the Mediterranean Fleet continued expanding.
It now possessed eight gunships.
Leaning against the rail, Duke Joren lit his pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"Too late."
"If we'd gotten these ships six months earlier, we could've raided Basil's supply lines between southern Italy and Greece."
He suddenly turned toward Commodore Hadava.
"Now that the war's over, there'll be at least eight or ten new earls created."
"You should be one of them."
"Have you decided where you want your lands?"
Hadava stared across the endless blue sea.
"Not yet."
"As long as it's by the coast."
Joren scratched his head.
"Nice?"
"Genoa?"
"Or somewhere along the northern Adriatic?"
"If you've already made up your mind, go tell His Majesty."
After serving Vig for nearly thirty years, Joren understood his lord well.
For a long time to come, the empire would likely focus on domestic development rather than conquest.
This round of noble grants would probably be the last great feast.
Miss it, and another opportunity might never come.
By mid-July, Vig finally returned to his loyal capital of Londinium.
As always, the Crown Prince and the Cabinet welcomed him with a magnificent triumph.
His golden carriage rolled through the city's main avenue.
Partway through the procession, construction ahead blocked nearly the entire street.
Pedestrians and wagons flowed around it like water around a reef.
Vig looked puzzled.
"What is this?"
The Prime Minister smiled.
"Your achievements surpass those of every monarch alive."
"The nobles and merchants have jointly funded the construction of a grand triumphal arch to commemorate your victories."
"Rest assured—it hasn't cost the treasury a single penny."
"Oh?"
Since it wasn't coming out of his own pocket, Vig's mood improved considerably.
Curious, he asked the chief architect for the plans.
The triumphal arch was designed with three arches—
a large central arch flanked by two smaller side arches.
It would stand roughly twenty meters tall and twenty-five meters wide.
At present, workers were still excavating the foundations.
From nearby courtyards came the rhythmic sound of chisels striking marble, where craftsmen were carving relief sculptures that would later decorate the monument.
The chief architect explained that construction would take about two years.
The finest artisans in Britain had been recruited, with assistance from the Department of Civil Engineering at Londinium University.
Vig frowned slightly.
"History records that Roman emperors and victorious generals passed beneath triumphal arches immediately after returning from war."
"Why are yours taking so long?"
The architect coughed awkwardly.
"Well..."
"The Roman stone arches also required years to complete."
"The generals actually marched beneath temporary wooden arches."
"We've prepared one as well."
"It's just ahead."
After looking over the plans a bit longer, Vig returned them and continued the grand—but thoroughly tedious—ceremony.
Soon enough, an ornate wooden arch appeared ahead.
It was decorated with symbolic trophies, statues, and gilded wreaths.
Vig barely glanced at it.
At this point, all he wanted was to return to his office and collapse into his reclining chair.
Once the imperial carriage reached the palace, the triumph officially concluded.
The expeditionary army returned to its camp east of the city, where the War Ministry calculated decorations and back pay before gradually disbanding the troops.
"One busy year..."
"Finally over."
Havrun dumped his paperwork onto his subordinates before leading a black horse laden with spoils through Londinium's eastern gate.
He was the fourth son of the wealthy merchant Harry.
The family owned an estate in the city's prestigious western district, only three streets away from the imperial palace.
The eastern quarter was filled with the smell of ale.
Restaurants, theaters, and public bathhouses all offered half-price discounts to returning veterans.
The entire city basked in rare celebration.
The farther west he walked, however, the quieter the streets became.
Only patrols of detectives and military police occasionally passed by.
At one crossroads, two military policemen in black uniforms stopped him.
Without complaint, Havrun calmly produced his identification papers and explained who he was.
After confirming the cavalry colonel's identity, the policemen saluted respectfully.
"My lord, too many soldiers are causing trouble while drunk."
"We're only conducting routine inspections."
"I understand."
He put away his papers and continued on.
Before reaching home, he was stopped twice more.
More than ten minutes later, Havrun finally stood before the gates of his family's estate.
The fragrance of flowers drifted over the high walls, instantly calming him.
The gatekeeper warmly welcomed the young master.
Handing over his horse's reins, Havrun strode into the courtyard.
The estate followed the architectural style of Roman villas.
At its center stood a marble fountain decorated with colorful mosaics, its clear water gently splashing into the basin below.
Green vines climbed the surrounding colonnades.
Flowerbeds bloomed with irises, lavender, and Damascus roses imported from the East.
"Those flowers are gorgeous."
"They must've cost a fortune."
Just then, Harry hurried across the courtyard and circled his youngest son.
"No injuries."
"Looks like all those temple donations worked."
"Come inside."
"I need to speak with you."
Back in the study on the second floor, Harry uncorked a treasured bottle of wine.
Father and son each filled a glass.
The moment they sat down, Harry eagerly began asking questions.
"In your last letter, you said you performed outstandingly during the decisive battle."
"What exactly happened?"
Havrun drained the wine in one gulp.
Still unsatisfied, he walked over to the cabinet, fetched a bottle of whisky, bit out the cork, and briefly recounted the story.
During the battle, nearly every cavalryman had been drawn toward the crimson Labarum representing the Eastern Roman emperor.
Something about it had felt wrong to Havrun.
Instead of following the obvious target, he gathered part of the Fourth Light Cavalry Battalion and rode south.
By that afternoon they intercepted more than two thousand Greek survivors.
Calling together scattered friendly units nearby, Havrun forced them to surrender.
Among the prisoners were two Eastern Roman provincial generals and over two hundred high-value captives—nobles, senior officials, bishops, and palace eunuchs.
They also seized a huge quantity of imperial ceremonial equipment.
As evening approached, he sent the prisoners back to camp before continuing the pursuit.
Not long afterward, he stumbled across the Duke of Naples hiding beside the road in a patch of tall grass.
"The operation lasted until the following day."
"Judging by the value of our prisoners, the Fourth Light Cavalry Battalion outperformed every infantry regiment, mountain infantry battalion, and other light cavalry battalion."
"His Majesty personally praised me."
"And promoted me on the spot to cavalry colonel."
Harry leaned forward excitedly.
"So..."
"Do you think you'll receive a higher title this time?"
Before the campaign, Havrun had been only a baron, holding a remote estate in inland Flanders.
Its annual income was laughably small compared to the family's immense fortune.
The title itself, however, mattered.
It marked Harry's family as members of the nobility.
Havrun shrugged.
"Judging by His Majesty's attitude..."
"I think..."
"Maybe I'll become an earl."
Harry slammed his hand onto the table.
"'Maybe?'"
"How can you say 'maybe' about something this important?"
"A baron and an earl are worlds apart!"
"In recent years, more than twenty barons and knights have lost their titles over all sorts of trivial matters."
"The great nobles, on the other hand, enjoy entirely different treatment."
"As long as they aren't involved in rebellion, almost everything else can be overlooked."
Harry owned thirty percent of the Wool Merchants' Guild, along with businesses scattered throughout the empire.
For this opportunity, he was willing to sell part of those holdings to raise money and secure every possible connection.
Havrun blinked.
"Is it really that serious?"
Harry nodded firmly.
"If it lets our family join the ranks of the great nobility..."
"Everything is worth it."
"In the coming days, don't waste your time."
"Visit your comrades."
"Meet your former classmates."
"Don't slack off."
"Our family's prosperity for the next several centuries depends on this."
Some time later, Havrun stepped out of the study looking exhausted.
Waiting outside were his three older brothers, together with their wives and children.
The atmosphere was noticeably awkward.
Harry had always believed in spreading risk.
Each of his four sons had been sent down a different path.
The eldest managed the Londinium headquarters of the merchant guild.
The second handled Baltic trade.
The third became a civil official.
The youngest entered the army.
No one had expected the youngest to achieve the greatest success.
Serving in the empire's most dangerous cavalry arm, he had survived two major campaigns unscathed.
Now he stood on the verge of becoming one of the great nobles.
It seemed increasingly likely that the lion's share of the family's fortune would eventually pass to him.
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